


Skinny Love

by dreadwulf



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadwulf/pseuds/dreadwulf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris and Isabela: friends, lovers, partners, embarking on life's greatest adventures together. A series of drabbles where I pour all my love for this beautiful pairing, some from the kinkmeme, mostly from my Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Playing Favorites

Isabela lead Fenris through the Hightown market, bounding from one stall to the next. He followed at a near distance, not quite touching her. "What about cheese?" she asked over her shoulder. "You like cheese, right?"

Fenris shrugged non-commitally. "It is edible." 

Rolling her eyes, she motioned him closer to the cheese stall. "You must like something. Come on, you're not even trying."

The elf peered skeptically at the shelf of cheese wheels, in their sickly yellow colors. They did not look terribly appetizing. He fingered the coins in his tunic pocket. "I am not spending an entire sovereign on a block of cheese..." he protested mildly.

"You are spending that money on something," Isabela insisted, inspecting a stack of goats-cheese. "You agreed."

He hadn't _precisely_ agreed to that, in so many words. But he had allowed her to drag him to the market, with that stated intention. Of course Isabela knew he was only humoring her. But that was all right, really. Fenris had limited good humor to go around, and she was happy to have it.

He looked amused by her insistence. "Isabela. Why are you so intent on wasting my money?"

She made a face. "It's not a waste if you  **enjoy**  it. Come on." 

They left the stall and moved along to a fruit cart, Isabela elbowing her way through the slowly moving crowd to lead Fenris to an enormous multi-colored mound of fruit, piled somewhat haphazardly.

"There," she said. "Apples, oranges, pears... Hoy, I'll take one of those starfruits. Don't worry, I'm paying this time!" she reassured the merchant.

Cautiously he accepted her coin, examining it closely after the exchange. Not so long ago neither one of them would have been allowed anywhere near their wares. Being a Champion's friend had its benefits. Still, the vendors kept a close eye on them, particularly Isabela, who had been known to help herself to whatever caught her eye. 

"Try this one," she said, turning to Fenris and breaking open the hard yellow fruit to reveal the red fleshy pulp within. "It's awfully good. Tangy."

He took it from her gamely, and brought it to his lips. Isabela watched with interest as the elf suckled at the juice of the sweet fruit.  

"It's fine," he said, when she asked him what he thought, but made no move to purchase any. Isabela sighed, and they moved on. 

She kept an eye on him, wandering through the crowds beside her.  He seemed a little lost without his sword, which she had insisted he leave behind. His eyes flickered all around, watching every direction for danger. Fenris didn't like crowds very much, she knew. He had only come along to please her.  

Impulsively she wrapped herself around the elf's arm, leaning in to speak into his ear. "You know, it wouldn't be the worst thing, getting caught liking something. I won't tell."

Fenris shifted uncomfortably and pulled away from her grasp. "Let's move on," he said.

* * *

 

This had started the night before. They had been drinking, of course. She'd kept him in the Hanged Man for most of the night. Isabela had her feet up on the table in the barroom, and Fenris had been tipped back in the chair next to her, as relaxed as she'd ever seen him.  There had been a lot of laughter, though she couldn't recall what about. She just remembered him staring at her legs and forgetting to hide it, or maybe not caring anymore if she caught him. 

She still hadn't gotten him into her bed. But he had long since stopped shutting down her advances - sometimes he even flirted back. Increasingly often. It was clear by now that all this teasing was becoming a Thing, and they both knew it. The shape of this Thing was still unclear to her, but the possibilities were tantalizing, and the anticipation had been its own fun. 

Normally Isabela would not have invested nearly so much time in one single seduction, but this one had been worth it. It had been years of this, and somehow she had never once gotten bored of him. You get all that Mystery off a person, normally you find Mundane underneath. Not Fenris. He was full of surprises, even after all this time. A flash of wit, an adorable mannerism, an unexpected sentimental side, and a wicked sense of play - they could emerge from his aloof veneer without warning, and disappear just as fast. She had been delighted by every new discovery. It was like unwrapping a present to find something even better than you imagined inside. 

Anyway. It had been grapes that made her think of it. She was tossing them in the air and catching them in her mouth, and nearly falling out of her chair in the process, and Fenris was laughing at her. He would not catch grapes in his own mouth, of course. "You only take them in bottle form?" she prodded.

"Alas," he said, and here put on a tremendously sad face, "all the wine is gone. The cellar is empty." He dropped the hangdog expression and grinned lopsidedly. "Even the Orlesian champaigne is no more, thanks to Hawke. She had a particular liking for that, though it was not kind to her in return."

"Tragic," she agreed, taking her feet down from the table and pouring herself some more ale. "Couldn't you buy more, though?"

"I suppose," he shrugged. 

Perhaps it was because he was in such an agreeable mood, and because she had reached the point of the evening in which everything seemed like a wonderful idea, that Isabela had pursued the matter further. "You never do, though. There's never anything to eat in your house either. What  **do**  you spend your money on?"

He looked thoughtful. "Kept it, mostly. For emergencies."

"That greasy magister's been dead for ages, though. You don't need quite so much Run Away Money now. Why don't you spend some of it? Buy yourself something nice, just to have it."

Fenris looked truly perplexed. "I have everything I need."

"It's not about need. Get something you want. Be comfortable! How about something for that house of yours? I've seen prison cells with more amenities."

"I don't want amenities. Hawke's the one who spends her money on lace pillows and curtains. Is that what you mean?"

"Of course not." Normally she would have enjoyed that mental image, but not now. This whole topic was irritating Isabela for reasons she could not explain. "You know, you really need to indulge yourself more. Live a little! You're not a fugitive anymore. What's your favorite food?"

He shrugged. "Nothing. I eat what's there."

"Nonsense! Everyone has a favorite food."

"One thing's as good as another. If you have ever been starving," he said, a little bit darkly, "you will eat what you can and be glad of it."

Isabela knew a thing or two about starving, in point of fact, but she wasn't about to bring it up. "You're not starving now. Why not enjoy yourself? Food is one of the great pleasures of life. It's right up there with sex, good rum, and sailing with a strong wind. What good is it to be a free man if you never have any fun?"

He smiled at that, his eyes flickering to her long, muscular legs. "I have my fun, Isabela. From time to time."

"Charmer. Don't think you can distract me." She gulped her ale and plunked the mug down on the table in a declarative way. "Tomorrow I'm taking you shopping."

* * *

 

She took Fenris to sample a great many things that afternoon. Brightly colored fruits and vegetables from all over the Free Marches. Pinches of spice, smelled from her palm. Warm fresh bread. They lingered in front of the meat stall, watching the butcher strip pork from a fresh slaughter. They drank cider from a barrel that had ridden all the way from the Anderfels. Fenris had urged them past a fishmonger -- he still hated the smell of fish. (Not a positive sign, for a potential crewmate. One couldn't live for months at sea off stale bread crusts. But she would have to deal with  _that_  problem later.) Finally they came to rest at Isabela's favorite shop. Her trump card.

The candy stall.

She nudged him. "I  **know**  you like sweets, elf. I've seen you sneak an extra chocolate puff at Aveline's dinner parties. So pick something you like. Look, rock candy!" She squealed in delight, pointing to a row of hard sugar candies on sticks, in all the colors of the rainbow. "When I was a girl I wanted these so badly. They were my  _favorites_. But I hardly ever got them. And now I can have them whenever I want, as many as I want. You see?" 

"I see," he said. He was not looking at the candy. He was looking at Isabela. 

"Here's the chocolates. And the cakes. Oh, look at the sugar frosting!" She bent down to inspect the neat spirals of icing layered around the centerpiece, an enormous strawberry cake. "Could we sample it?" 

"Piss off," the merchant said, folding his arms. "Ruin my cakes for the likes of you? Pay or get lost."

Fenris watched her negotiate. He had enjoyed this afternoon with her. As the shadows lengthened he found himself sorry for the day to end. He wanted the merchants to take their time and occupy Isabela's attention so that he could just watch her leaning against the counter, tucking her chestnut hair behind her ears. Looking over at him periodically with her glittering golden eyes and grinning.

It was a risky business, this choosing favorites. If you allowed yourself to like a thing, there was always the chance that it could be taken away. The world was cruel, and his life had been full of people who would destroy what he wanted only because he wanted it, just to cause him pain. It was safer to want nothing, to stay apart, to not care.

But was that really living?

Isabela purchased a little cake, with chocolate frosting. Only a mouthful. She held it to him outside.

"Open wide," she purred.

Without hesitation he wrapped his long fingers around her wrist and pulled it closer, allowing her to pop the morsel into his mouth. It was sweet and moist, and he swallowed it in a moment, holding her wrist.

"You missed the best bit," she went on encouragingly. She wiggled a finger coated in frosting, teasingly. 

To her surprise, he took the bait. He leaned in to brush her hand against his lips and her breath caught. Her index finger slid between his lips to the hot insides, and slowly, very deliberately, he licked the sugar from her. Then he drew back, releasing her finger, licking his lips. Swallowing the sweetness. 

His eyes didn't leave hers the entire time.

Isabela shivered and bit her lip. The way his tongue had moved against her skin had promised that he would know exactly how to use it, when the time came. 

Fenris walked beside her again, as they turned to head back. He looked faintly pleased with himself. As well he should - how was it whenever she tried to get a rise out of him, she ended up the one all hot and bothered?

"You  **can**  smoulder after all," she complimented him. "You've been practicing."

"Perhaps a bit."

"You should go back and get more," she laughed. "There are all kinds of places you could lick it off."

"Don't push your luck, wench," Fenris said. But there was no bite to his words, and a smile still on his lips. Instead he allowed her to snake her arm through his, and they walked that way together all the way home. 


	2. Isabela's Rules of Piracy

He’d laughed at her when she asked. Snorted, with a dry chuckle, and said, “You haven’t _got_ a ship, Isabela.”

This was why Isabela was bent over a table in the middle of the night, in her nightshirt, writing down a list of all the reasons Fenris would make a terrible pirate.

The nerve of him, that landlubber. Other men would kill for such an invitation, to serve on a ship with the Queen of the Eastern Seas. Outraged, she drummed her fingers against the table and frowned.

Fenris could look the part, certainly. She had no trouble picturing the elf in a sailor’s clothes, curved sword at his hip, terrorizing the waking sea with his blazing lyrium brands and his swordsmanship.

(She had pictured the sight rather often, of late, though just how often she would admit to no one.)

The look he could do, but the attitude? There he fell rather short. When she really thought about it, there was no one less suited to the life of a pirate than Fenris.

Right off, his lackluster reaction to her invitation showed him nowhere near deserving of a post on her ship.  _So what_ if she had no ship?! Technicalities! Isabela was still a sea captain even years after her ship ran aground. Anyone you met on the docks would tell you that. They still called her Captain there. When she was ready to leave, she’d have a new ship to command in no time.

That was the first thing about piracy, a thing that the elf clearly did not understand: _Once a pirate, always a pirate, whether on land or sea, until the day you die._

She'd already written that on a blank sheet of paper she’d swiped from Varric’s suite, and liked the way it looked. So she wrote a big #1 next to it, and stuck the feathery end of the quill (which she’d also swiped) in her mouth and thought it over.

Thieving, she now thought, that was another thing Fenris seemed to have no interest in. Unlike Isabela. When she looked around the rickety table she had set up in her room (salvaged from the barroom, natch) most of the things surrounding her were pilfered from here and there and everywhere. Colorful fabrics, pretty hats, knives and bottles and bars of gold - she'd built up quite a stash so far. Fenris didn't have nearly as many possessions to his name, of any kind. 

Soon she wrote down #2.   _Pirates take what they want._

See what you like? Take it! That was her philosophy. The essence of piracy, when you came right down to it.

 _If Fenris saw something he liked,_ she thought, _he’d stare at it, and think about it, and think about it some more, and maybe, eventually, he’d do something about it._

And doing something about it wouldn't even involve taking. Fenris would **ask** , very politely and respectfully.  Worse, sometimes he would **buy**. He seemed to take pleasure in buying things, in counting out the gold pieces and giving them to the merchants in the market. He even insisted on buying his own drinks, when they all shared a table in the taproom.

Isabela tapped the quill against the table irritably. What kind of pirate **pays** for things? Why, it was practically unheard of. Pirates **steal**. That’s what they do. They didn’t go to the market and **buy things** like a chump. They went to the docks and picked through the shipments before they got to market, or traded for stolen goods in a back alley. If Isabela actually paid off her tab at the Hanged Man, it would positively ruin her reputation.  Fenris didn’t even keep a tab! He owed nothing to anybody! It was maddening.

She thought this point could use some further emphasis, so she scratched out an emphatic _#3_ and wrote beside it: _Pirates PREFER stealing and smuggling_ and went straight on to _#4. Legal = boring._

Fenris never seemed to grasp this point.  For a guy whose only talents lay in murdering people, he seemed awfully intent on earning a legitimate living. He could walk into any house in Kirkwall and take what he wanted, and no one would be able to stop him! But instead, he helped Aveline train guardsmen, and took mercenary jobs for pay. Not for the spoils – for the pay! Like it was – she shuddered – a job!

He didn’t even loot the bodies! This had always bothered her. There she’d be, kneeling down to divest the defeated guards/bandits/Qunari/whoever of their possessions, which they no longer needed anyway, and there _he’d_ be, standing there disdainfully, as if he were too good to go through somebody’s pockets.  He wouldn’t even let her do it for him!

She scribbled out another item _– #5. Looting and pillaging is not optional – it’s the whole bloody point!_

Fenris claimed no interest in jewels or jewelry. His eyes slid right over a fine pair of boots or a silk tunic as if they weren’t even there. Fine,  he didn’t use those things anyway. But the weapons? The armor? He only ever wore the same old armor, and they found such _lovely_ things, just _lying around_ , and he ignored them!

Isabela would often try to draw his attention to a helmet or a blade, even rinsing the blood off them first, but Fenris was never interested. He liked his own armor, and he preferred to pick his own sword. On his own. In a shop.

He was bloody _impossible_ , was what he was.

A pirate who didn't loot was no kind of pirate at all. Even if he didn't like anything, he could still get it and sell it! So what if he didn’t care for jewelry – he was a man, it was a common problem.  But you know who did care for jewelry --  **Isabela** cared for jewelry, which she took pains to remind him. Often. Could he be bothered to bring back something pretty _for her_ , at least, when Hawke took him to the Vinmark Mountains and the ancient Warden prison? Of course not. Varric recovered bags and bags of spoils from the dwarven ruins and Fenris brought back a broken rib he refused to magic away. Typical!

_#6. Gold is a pirate’s best friend_

He sort of got this one, in that he hoarded gold like a storied dragon. Even Isabela couldn’t find where Fenris hid his earnings, and she'd had many opportunities to look. Since he rarely spent his coin there had to be quite a large amount of it stashed away somewhere. But that was just the thing – he never spent the gold! What use was a pile of gold if you’re just _sitting_ on it?

Isabela got itchy just thinking about all that gold sitting somewhere, _unused_ , when it could be spent on all sorts of lovely things. Like a ship. Like a week’s room at the Blooming Rose with all the entertainment she could think of. But mostly like a ship. If she had that money, she would be in her captain’s quarters right now, instead of the back room of a tavern. Which was probably why he kept it hidden, of course.

She sighed as she wrote the next item.

_#7. A pirate belongs at sea._

It was not at all clear what knowledge the elf had of sailing, or if he even knew how to swim. When they traveled the Wounded Coast, he did not look longingly at the horizon, did not inhale deeply the salt-sea air or splash into the waves at first opportunity. He stood with his arms crossed, water lapping at his ankles, without removing a single item of clothing. For all she knew, he couldn’t swim a lick.

It would be a very short career in piracy if he didn’t know how to swim. She certainly wasn’t going to jump in and save him every time he got knocked overboard.

_#8. Every pirate for themselves._

All her men knew this. In the end they were all on their own. Well as they worked together at sea, they were a cutthroat bunch of liars and cheats and knew to sleep with one eye open, if not both. And they knew full well that their Captain would face the Void itself to keep the ship afloat and uncaptured, but in their own troubles they were on their own, and should they make one move against her will she’d march them to the chopping block herself.

Fenris _seemed_ to understand this, but she knew that he didn’t, not _really_. He may come off as insolent and aloof most of the time, and he certainly preferred to be seen as a lone wolf, but in reality he was entirely too loyal for his own good. He would go along with Hawke’s crazy plans no matter how much grumbling he made about it, against his own instincts and good sense. Sure, Isabela had done the same, but she did it as a lark, and had none of his qualms about mages and laws and potential bloody death.  Had things gone less well she would have buggered off in an instant to save her own neck, but Fenris, he would go down fighting with the rest of them, and for a cause he didn’t even believe in!

Fighting for profit was one thing, but for _charity_ was something else. Go around sticking your neck out for people, and you'll get it chopped. She had said it time and time again, but it never seemed to stick - not for Hawke, and not for Fenris. Hawke would go around do-gooding and Fenris would help him, which in her opinion was twice as bad. Not only would he not get paid for Hawke's helping people out, he wouldn't even get the glory! Doubly pointless! 

That was the sort of behavior that shortened one’s adventuring life considerably, and not one she promoted amongst her men. Practicality, cynicism, absence of belief and a distinct lack of scruples, those were the sort of qualities that made a successful crewman. If she were just meeting Fenris for the first time she would not even consider him for her crew.

Isabela chewed on her pen again, and wondered why these thoughts troubled her so. It was a moot point anyway; Fenris had not in fact agreed to come with her to sea.  Why did it matter what sort of pirate he would make?

Still, she lettered at the top of the page _Reasons Fenris Wouldn't Rate as A Pirate._

There was a creak from the bed, and when she turned she saw in the candlelight his white head peering blearily at her over the bedsheets. Quickly she turned the page over and crossed the room, sliding under the blanket to join Fenris in bed. He was still naked under there, quite an enticing sight, but rather than start things up again she set her chin against his shoulder and closed her eyes and pictured an endless sea under a clear sky.

When she awoke the next morning, Fenris had already left.

It was nearly noon, as was her usual breakfast time, and as she stumbled to the chamber pot she noticed her page had been discovered. When she got a closer look she saw that her list from last night had been amended. Somewhat clumsily, comments had been added, here and there.

  * A Runaway sLave is naturally a smuGgler by trade.
  * He steAls himSelf.
  * Besides, I stoll a house. Have U stolen a house?
  * I live whERE I please. On LAND OR SEA
  * I HAVE gold
  * U could have it if U asked 
  * I have eveRythiNG I want already
  * I took U didn’t I?



She would have words with him about that last item. As she recalled it had been quite the other way around.

Well, there had certainly been _taking_ , on both sides... so it wasn't exactly _untrue._ Just incomplete.

They'd stolen each other, more like. Six years in the city, and all she'd really gained was one grouchy lyrium elf. It had taken entirely too long, but she had him, and she wasn't quite ready to trade him in just yet. Judging from his rebuttal, maybe he wasn't either. 

Most importantly, her last item had been altered to read:

  *  _Every pirate for themselves **and their Captain**_



Isabela stared at this statement for a long while, and eventually concluded that perhaps Fenris had the gist of things after all.

The rest he could learn. 


	3. Travails at Sea

Fenris's first weeks aboard the Sea Witch were rough. Very rough.

Captain Isabela banished him below decks right away. "If you're really going to join my crew, you're here to work," she warned him. "I don't make exceptions for anyone. If my crew gets even a hint that I'm going easy on you, ugly doesn't begin to describe it."

Fenris agreed. "I do not ask for favoritism. Treat me exactly as you would anyone else on your ship."

He would live to regret those words.

* * *

He slept in the galley with the lowliest of the crew. There was no bed for him at first, only a cloth hammock strung between other berths, and he fell out of it in his sleep several times before he got the trick of it. He could hear snickering each time. He took it in good spirits, in the beginning at least. 

In the morning, they all ate in a great noisy crowd below decks. He was passed a bowl of what could be only politely called "food", which stunk of fish. Grimacing, he poked at it for a few minutes, standing against the wall (there was no room for him on the benches, and noone seemed inclined to move) before setting the bowl aside uneaten and settling for a piece of bread. 

He stood there chewing on his meagre breakfast, looking around. Hard to tell if he was being ignored, or if a lyrium-covered elf was truly uninteresting to a band of pirates. Perhaps they had seen many more exotic sights in their time at sea. Fenris shifted from one foot to another and pulled anxiously at his light trousers and loose shirt. It felt exceedingly strange not to wear armor. "You'll sink straight to the bottom in that," Isabela's first mate had advised before handing over his current attire. The shirt was several sizes too large, he suspected, and he had to tie it off in several places with string so that it wouldn't get in his way. He felt a strange pang of wistfullness for his own imperial leathers, left in a chest somewhere in the ship's hold.

He was held back after breakfast by the First Mate, who finally took notice of him only after emptying his bowl. He was a short and bearded human who could almost have passed for a dwarf; he had very few teeth, and an ugly scar curling up from his lip. He ordered the "new blood" (a common term, most likely, but Fenris suspected he had also forgotten his name very quickly) to clean the mess table while the rest of the crew made their way to their posts.

Scrubbing slop from the floors was not exactly what Fenris had envisioned for his first duty as a pirate. Hoping to get to the proper sailoring sooner, he gave it a decidedly halfhearted attempt. He hated cleaning and anything that resembled it in any way, had carefully avoided such tasks in his own home, for the brief time that he had had one.

His mopping certainly did not pass muster with the cook, who grumbled at him awhile before sending him out. "They always send me the new ones, and they never learn to properly swab a deck before they wash out. I'll have you give it a proper scrub tomorrow, if you haven't fallen overboard. For now run up top to hoist the Main."

Fenris scowled and handed over the mop. The crew did not seem to expect him to last here; he had heard such mutterings in the night and as he handed back his bowl at the table. 

The main sail had already gone up by the time he reached the upper decks, and the morning Quartermaster, a mustacioed Antivan, frowned at him. "You'll have to move faster than that, new blood. Get up there to secure the sail."

Fenris looked at the mast skeptically. It was thick and sturdy, but offered little in the way of rungs or footholds. He was meant to climb this? Would they not instruct him? But no, the Antivan was moving away; clearly he did not intend to give him any more direction. Fenris stared after him curiously. Expertly weaving with the rolls of the deck, he approached the Captain at the stern of the ship to make his report. 

It was the first time that Fenris had seen Isabela fully in her role as Captain, and he studied her profile at a distance. She wore clothing he had not seen before, and considerably more of it. Finer boots, thick navy trousers. A long, elegant coat with brass buttons. A wide hat shielded the sunlight from her peripheral vision, and she held a spyglass aloft, inspecting the hoisted sail with a businesslike air that he had not seen in her before.

She did not acknowledge him in any way.

So he climbed. He had climbed only a little on land, on trees and cliffsides, but none of those were listing to and fro in a great sweeping motion with buffeting winds beating against him. He made what felt like a good deal of progress, but when he went to pull himself up to the first crossbar he lost his hold and fell. 

The deck slammed into him brutally, enough to leave him dazed and nauseous. Fenris remained on hands and knees for a moment as the deck tilted beneath him, and from the sails above he could hear jeers and laughter.

His face burned. Humiliation was not a thing he took well, and for a moment the sensation threatened to spill over into rage. But he had promised Isabela that he would do his best, and so he pushed himself back up to his feet, swallowed the bile in his throat, and climbed again. 

It was not the last time he fell. It was not even the second to last. When he climbed into his hammock that night he was covered in bruises, rope burns, and cuts. The ropes twisted out of his grasp, his end of the catapult would smash into his legs when he stumbled beneath a particularly violent wave. It would be this way for weeks. He was not sure he would ever get the right of it. 

Fenris was unused to failure. He had always been able to excel at most things he tried. His training in Tevinter, though brutal and involuntary, he had taken to instinctively, or so it had seemed. As a mercenary his skillset had been a perfect fit, and he had picked up plenty more abilities besides. But he had never tried anything like this. There were so many tasks he needed to learn - how to rig a sail, to run the decks in the evening swells without stumbling - and he struggled with every one. His pride, hard-won as it was, did not bear up well beneath this strain.

He felt the crew resented his presence. They were an odd collection of ruffians, and Fenris wondered just where Isabela had found them all. They came from all around the known world: Nevarra, the Anderfels, Rivain. There was a Chasind woman who slept in the Eagle's Nest and swung from the ropes like she was born to it. There were elves all through the crew, particularly in the cutlass-armed boarding party, and the Quartermaster during the dark hours was a dwarf. They all seemed to view Fenris with suspicion, and surely could tell he had no experience as a sailor. For his part he had nothing to say to them. Though they were all outcasts in their way, he felt little in common with them, and did not attempt to ingratiate himself. 

He felt slow and clumsy above decks. His fellow crew members would have to slow their motions to accomodate him, though they did not always. After a time, when he had hindered their work too much or made too outright a mistake, they would send him below, where he would be made to swab the decks and scrub the chamber pots. Humiliation on humiliation. 

He felt he was letting Isabela down.

Weeks into the voyage he had not spoken with her even once. He saw her only in the morning, when the duties were passed out by the First Mate and she paced around his report. She looked quite dashing with her cutlass and her fancy coat, her hair bound up into her jaunty hat, and he noticed the crew watching her admiringly at these times. She burst in without notice and swept out without farewell. "Ten days to Llomeryn, boys," she would call out, and everyone snapped to attention whenever she spoke up. Her voice rang with authority and command and only a hint of the mischief that he knew so well. "If the wind holds we'll beat the fleet in, and be out before they know what hit them." Then she turned her back and crossed the ship to take her place at the wheel and that would be all he would hear of her for another day.

At Llomeryn, a place he had often pictured curiously and imagined himself exploring at Isabela's side, he never left the ship. He was not invited to go ashore with the Captain's team of fighters, and when they returned laden in jewels he was not offered a share. They cast off in the dead of night (he helped to haul the anchor), and when he came above decks in the morning he saw that they had new passengers - two comrades from Kirkwall, Merrill and Varric. 

Happy for friendly faces, Fenris abandoned his post and approached the captain's wheel, smiling. Surely Varric would be full of stories from all the months since the fall of Kirkwall, and it would be good to hear them. He hadn't realized how much he missed conversation until that moment. He was even pleased to see Merrill, which could only be a measure of how miserable he had been.

But the Captain was not pleased at all. She whirled on him as soon as Varric lifted a hand in greeting. "Get to your post, sailor!" she snapped, without even a hint of friendship, and his face fell. "Aye," he answered shortly, and turned back.

He didn't see them again; the two former comrades rode with them for two days only and they did not seek him out below decks, and the Captain did not send for him even in the evening when the crew was at its leisure. 

He nursed this hurt for some time. Other friends she brought up to the Captain's quarters and dined with, and him she shooed away. She made no inquiries to his progress, much less his happiness. Perhaps she was embarrassed of him? Did she feel him a poor addition to the crew that she felt she could not simply dump at the nearest port due to their history together?

In the night, he practiced climbing the riggings, with no sails to interfere. The winds could be heavier in the evening and vision could be poor, but he felt freer with noone to observe him, and with all the stars laid out above he felt comforted. The skies were clear and sharp in the night, and he had never seen so many stars, nor so bright. He often stopped just to look at them.

The Night Quartermaster, the lone dwarf aboard, was named Hubert, and came from a Thaig Fenris had never heard of somewhere beneath the Anderfels. He learned this one night when he came up after the evening meal and saw the sky and waters alight with a strange phosphorant glow. 

"Is it magic?" he asked the dwarf, who stood alone at the railing looking out to sea. The elf eyed the lights uneasily. "Lyrium perhaps?"

The dwarf laughed. "It's the Southern Glow, new blood. You get it this time of year when you go far enough out to sea. Some sort of plant that lives in the water. Only lights up a few nights a year. Quite a sight, isn't it? The Rivainis consider it good luck."

"And what do you consider it?"

The dwarf shrugged gruffly. "Beautiful to look at. Not much else."

Fenris considered the view. He had never seen anything quite this color before - a deep, shining indigo. "Beautiful is enough, perhaps," he said thoughtfully.

Before long he met Hubert at the railing often, bringing up mugs of rum from the barrels below the Mess. They would converse awhile before Fenris took to the sails for his private training. Hubert had sailed with Isabela before. "She's a fine Captain. Runs a tight ship, and can sniff out profit like noone else. She'll be hard on you for awhile, lad, but if you prove yourself, she'll keep you alive. Can't ask much more than that."

"Hmm," he said noncommitally.

Perhaps he couldn't. If he was really a member of her crew, then she would be his Captain. He had not considered what that would be like -- he hadn't expected what _**she** _ would be like. 

He wondered, often, if it had been a mistake to come out to sea. It was not as he had imagined it. He had pictured the sea voyage as an adventure for Isabela and himself, and had not thought of the rest of the crew, or his place in it. He doubted he would ever be truly at home among them, as he had once been with Hawke in Kirkwall. Was this truly what he wanted?

* * *

Then there was the run-in with the merchant patrol. A hired ship, following along a trading vessel to protect it from pirate vessels like the Sea Witch. Even Fenris could recognize a warship, its shape sturdy and intimidating on the horizon.

"Aye, we've seen that one before," Silas, a skinny Nevarran lad told him, while straddling the boom above. "Just before you came on we had to run from their blasts. They've that Qunari gunpowder aboard."

Fenris whipped around to look for the Captain, and found her on the upper deck eyeing the ship through her spyglass, her long brown hair whipping in the breeze. She looked calm and collected, and issued orders steadily to men who jumped to obey one after another.  _A good Captain,_ he thinks.  _Hubert is right, of course. I expected it, but it is another thing to see for_ myself.

Suddenly she swung her gaze towards him, and he blanched. Hurriedly he redirected his attention to his assigned task, and until he heard her call his name directly he did not look up.

"Fenris! Front and center!" he heard her shout.

The sailors at his right and left looked over to him, surprise plain on their faces. He felt some small satisfaction in leaving them. He made his way to the prow of the ship, feeling their eyes on him. 

The Captain was still peering at the gunship through her spyglass when he came to stand beside her. "The  _Étoile **,**_ " she said to noone in particular, and to everyone. "Orlesian. Trouble. They could blow us out of the water if they get close enough." She shook her head and made a fist with her free hand. "But we need that cargo. Badly."

Fenris saw that the larger ship, the _Étoile_ , was turning to head in their direction. 

"Shall we withdraw?" the First Mate asked, apprehensive but resigned. 

"No," she said decisively, and lowered her spyglass. At last she noticed him there, and for the first time since he came aboard she seem to really see him. "Fenris, I'd like you to lead the raiding party."

He heard some expression of surprise behind him, mainly for the idea that there would be a raiding party at all. He was not surprised, however. Turning to run was not the Captain's style. He cleared his throat. "I shall do my best, Captain."

"Come here," she said, and handed him the spyglass. "Look."

He looked. She pointed out to him the stern of the enemy ship, and a particular figure with a red hat. 

"Can you get there, if I bring the ship close enough? Be honest."

He looked. "I believe so," he said slowly. 

"Bring us about," she ordered the Quartermaster. "Make like we're turning for a run, then let them overtake us. We'll hoist a flag of surrender just long enough to get close." 

_She's really thoroughly mad,_ he thought, enjoying it. 

As the other ship approached, the Captain prepared her crew. Fenris stood at her side on the upper deck. "Keep your arms hidden until I give the order. Fenris," she turned to him, drawing out her own cutlass and holding it to him in front of everyone, "you saw their captain?"

"I saw him," he said, hefting the sword. He feels a great many eyes on him in this moment. 

The Captain grinned fiercely. "Bring me his head."

Fenris smiled. Now _**this** _ was something he knew how to do.

* * *

It went off exactly as planned -- just as the other ship prepared to board them, Fenris catapulted aboard and used his lyrium abilities to phase through obstacles on the deck - a trick he had been practicing in his nightly exercises. He crossed the ship slashing ropes and necks and reached his goal before the  _Étoile_ fully realized that they had been infiltrated.

Captain Isabela held her men back as she watched Fenris through the spyglass, until she saw him take down their Captain. Her men gathered along the rail, watching and murmuring. They could not see him as clearly as she could, but his glittering lyrium tattoos were visible from a considerable distance. Chaos erupted on the opposite deck, and the boarding party turned back in confusion. 

"Let's go, boys!" she screamed, and the Sea Witch began their raid. Her crew crossed the gangplank in waves, and quickly overwhelmed the Orlesian forces. In the end they took them both, the _Etoile_ and the merchant vessel _Rosalie._ The former they sank, once they had stripped it of its weapons and its gunpowder. The latter they left stranded and sail-less, and looted of its valuables. _The Sea Witch_ sailed on considerably richer that day, and besides a few non-lethal injuries they lost not a single man. 

Fenris was greeted at the dinner table that evening with a cheer, and a toast. It took him entirely by surprise. Suddenly the crew was thumping him on the back and asking him how his tattoos worked, if they were magic, what other sorts of tricks he could do. He had not used his lyrium in all the weeks he had been aboard, at Isabela's advice, and he wondered then if she had planned this. She did enjoy a dramatic revelation. Either way, it had worked. Suddenly he saw smiling faces everywhere he went. They were calling him the ship's secret weapon, the Lyrium Ghost.

In all his life he had never been cheered before, nor toasted to. It was strange, though not unpleasant.

Things were easier after that. He grew more adept at navigating the ship, though he was still slower than the rest. The demonstration of his true abilities had endeared him to the crew considerably, and certain crewmen took more time to show him simpler ways to complete his work. He spoke with several of them now, in a friendly way. He picked up bits of their native languages and exchanged stories about their travels. None of them asked about his past, and he did not bring it up. There were no past lives aboard a pirate ship. They were all fugitives, in one way or another. They kept their cards close to their chest, but when the time came they would die for each other. He was beginning to see what would draw a person to this kind of life.

* * *

Not long after that he was summoned to the Captain's Quarters. After all these weeks of silence, it made him uneasy. Though he had proven himself useful in the raid, he knew he had still fallen short of expectations as a member of the crew. Short of her expectations as a Captain.

He found her sitting at her desk, working on one of many maps strewn across it. She barely looked up at him when he came in. "So. New Blood. I hear you've had a difficult adjustment."

"You noticed," he said, with more than a hint of bitterness.

One of her raiders at the door glared at him, and fingered the cutlass at his waist. The Captain waved him off without looking. "Leave us," she told him, "and shut the door behind you."

When the door closed, the Captain laid down her pen and stared at him. Fenris continued to stand at attention, as he had been made to on the upper deck, whenever the Captain addressed the ship. "Oh, hell, _at ease,_ " she released him, and rubbed her eyes with two fingers.

Fenris relaxed, and slouched. He was still adjusting to being without his armor; it made him fidgety, even here. The Captain stood and came around her desk, leaning back against it. Fenris could see now the fine details on her coat, the gold embroidery, the embossed brass.

The Captain removed her hat, shaking out her long hair. She set it carefully on her desk. "Do you resent taking my orders, sailor?" she asked almost casually.

Fenris shook his head. He thought he might, before he came aboard. It did sting to take orders from anyone, after so long on his own. He had been so completely subservient in Tevinter, and thought to never obey such commands again. But from the Captain in particular...  he respects her. He has confidence in her decisions, and wants to carry them out. It is much as it had been for Hawke, except...

"Your orders, I do not. The orders from the First Mate, and the Cook, and crewmen much younger than I... that is more difficult."

"This is what it is, sailor," the Captain said harshly. "This is life on a pirate ship. You need to ask yourself one thing. After all you have fought to make your life your own, is _**this** _ the life you really want?"

His eyes went unfocused, and he thought. He thought about bruises all up and down his body from falling off the mast, and the burning humiliation of failure visited over and over again. He thought of jeering voices and a messy table, eating elbow to elbow with forty men, and those same men raising their cups to him a few days ago. He thought of the open sea and the starry sky, and the southern lights across the horizon. And then he looked up at his Captain and said,

"Yes."

And she smiled.

Grinned, actually, with a sharp exhalation of breath that sounded of both surprise and relief. All at once she looked like _Isabela_ again, the Isabela he knew on land.

"Huh. You had me worried there, Fenris. But I had to know; I had to know." She put a hand over her heart and closed her eyes, and then sighed and said:  "I'm so glad."

* * *

Later, in her bed, they stared at each other fondly in the dim candlelight. Naked beneath silken sheets, he felt more comfortable than he had in weeks. The open window let the sounds of the waves wash in, and they listened to it in silence for a long time.

Then, reluctantly, Fenris admitted: "I'm afraid I'm not a very good sailor, Isabela. I have been trying, but..."

She smiled. "You ridiculous man." Her fingers ran lightly along his arms, picking carefully over the bruises. "You've been at sea only a little more than a month! And you never sailed before in your life! Did you really think you would be great at this right away, just like that?"

He smiled back. "Shouldn't I be?"

"Nobody expects you to be amazing at everything without even trying, silly boy." 

"Your crew does," he told her ruefully.

"Oh, don't mind them. Harassing the new guy is their third favorite hobby, right after drinking and looting. If they really hated you, they would have thrown you overboard, believe me." She threw an arm over her forehead and stared up at the ceiling, growing thoughtful. "I remember my first month at sea. Only a young girl, and a complete landlubber - never even _set foot_ on a ship before. The first storm at sea I was so terribly sick I wanted to die. I couldn't handle the rigging, couldn't swing a sword, couldn't do _anything_. Oh, the crew _hated_ me. I had to get tough fast. And even when I did get good -- and I _**am** _ good, pet, never doubt that -- it took twice as long as that to win their respect." She slid up to sit against the rosewood headboard, and her hand came down to brush lightly across his hair. "It's going to take you some time. But if the sea is in your blood, if you eat and sleep it and drink it and love it, that will get you through. You can get by on that until you have the skill. That's why I had to be sure. If I'd put you up in my quarters and just carried you along, you'd never be a real pirate."

He gave her a quizzical look. "But the others? Merrill and Varric? They never had to sleep below decks or swab the midden..."

Her golden eyes sparkle. "They're passengers, sailor. I'm just giving them a ride, they're not long-term. You, I'd like to keep." 

"Pfaugh. Would you really?" He scowls at her, just for a moment. "You seemed to want nothing to do with me up to now."

"Fenris, I told you. I don't sleep with the crew. Policy. I was going to let you sweat it out until we got to the next port and then drag you ashore for a week solid. But then you did so well on the raid and well..." she shrugged happily. "I got impatient. And... I guess I might have missed you a little."

"Hmm." He draws her closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. "I may have missed you as well."

Later, after another enthusiastic round of lovemaking, he spoke up hopefully: "Does this mean I will not be sleeping in the galley anymore?"

Isabela cracked up. "Oh, I see. Bedding the Captain to get a better berth. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid."

"I did not--"

"Oh, shut up." She contemplates his face happily. "You'll sleep below decks until the crew respects you. And you'd better work your arse off, sailor."

This seems fair enough. To live at sea, and serve with Isabela, perhaps even be her First Mate one day - this is worth any amount of discomfort, as far as he is concerned.

"Aye, Captain."


	4. Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris enjoys a night out with Isabela snf learns that rum is an excellent drink and happiness is within his reach after all.

That night it had been just he and Isabela and a bottle of rum, and the rest hardly mattered.

She had her usual crowd of admirers in the Hanged Man, loud sorts, all clamouring for her attention. Docksmen she’d picked up over the years, sailors hoping for a slot on her next voyage. But it had been only Fenris she had shared her long-saved bottle of Llomeryn Rum with, and her smile was only for him. He knew this even before he was drunk, though he would be more certain of it after.

Isabela’s hangers-on watched expectantly as he raised his glass. He did not knock it back so quickly as the pirate, but he kept up acceptably.

Fenris had become somewhat of an expert on the topic of wine, but other spirits he remained wary of. In truth he does not partake so often of even the wine as they think he does. In the main he drinks alone, slowly and contemplatively, from the dwindling wine cellar at the manor. Here in the Hanged Man he imbibes infrequently and little, too wary of his surroundings, and contemptuous of the quality of the shabby tavern’s liquor.

But this particular night was different, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was because Danarius was dead, though he had been dead for months now; no sudden development, that. Perhaps it was because they had an uncomplicated victory earlier that day in conflict with slavers, and with considerable reward to boot. His pockets laden with coin and with slavers blood on his sword, he could not help but be cheerful, and so he had let the pirate ply him with drink as she had so often attempted and so rarely succeeded in doing.

Isabela had plunked the entire bottle on the table in front of him, when she brought a round to the rest of the table. “We’re sharing that,” she informed him, and he had only raised an eyebrow. The rest of the table got their customary mugs of watery ale, and grumbled at the unfairness of this distribution. She paid them no mind. “Keep up,” he was instructed, and for a change he did as she commanded, pouring a glass of the golden liquid for each of them.

Perhaps, in truth, he had gone along because Isabela herself was so inordinately cheerful, fairly dancing with glee. The coin they had earned that day was the last she needed for the private trove that she had been secretly squirreling away ever since her return to Kirkwall. The terms had been settled, the price (at long last) agreed to, and in the morning she would have a freshly-inked deed to her very own ship. Isabela would answer to nothing but “Captain” tonight. They were here to celebrate, and the Captain would be generous in her triumph (but Isabela was often generous, Fenris thought, in her unacknowledged way) buying drinks and food for her companions and regaling them with stories and elaborate jokes. The room rang with her laughter, and she looked so very alluring when she laughed.

"Rum," Isabela told him, "is the sailor’s drink, and the finest drink in the world. I’ll make a sailor out of you by morning, slim."

It did go down very smoothly. After the first glass he accepted a refill without argument, and enjoyed the way her hand covered his around the glass as she poured.

On his sixth (or was it seventh?), he found himself quite loose and relaxed. He was sitting against the wall with his arm around Isabela as if it were a normal thing, to put his arm about someone. That was the benefit of drink - you thought of doing a thing, and you simply did it. No agonizing over it. He had thought on many occasions that it would be a fine thing to put his arm around her waist, and this time he simply did it. Rum was a wonderful drink indeed.

She was spinning some sort of tale about how she had come to own, and then to lose again, a tavern in Nevarra, and Fenris leaned his head back against the wall and enjoyed the warmth of her against his arm, the curve of her hip beneath his hand. His belly was full and his seat was warm and comfortable beside the fire, and an unfamiliar feeling bubbled up in his chest like fizzy wine that another man may have called happiness.

He would not be able to remember, later, who had begun to kiss who. To his recollection he and Isabela were sitting together and the rest of their little party was drifting away, and then the bottle was nearly empty and they were a few minutes into a very long kiss. It felt wonderful. He could not think of anything more wonderful than this. The taste of her, the way her hair smelled, the murmuring sound she made deep in her throat. The kiss went on for so long that he had to think about how to draw breath without breaking it and Isabela giggled at him for that, not in meanness but something more like delight. When he pulled back for air she chased him, and kissed his smile.

Fenris could scarcely believe any of it was happening. In the not-quite-realness of his inebriation he felt as though it were a dream, a marvelous dream, a dream with no consequences and no dangers. Their tryst in that quiet corner seemed to go on forever and yet not nearly long enough. Time had gone blurry around them and he was entranced by the delicate skin around her collarbone, so smooth and soft against his lips.

Urgency introduced itself slowly. The unhurried wandering of hands, stroking and feeling, gradually became grasping, became pulling closer. The pulse of their kiss grew faster. Breaths hitched, gasped. She bit at his lip and the sensation made him growl softly and squeeze her more rudely, unmindful of their surroundings. His body grown heavy with want. He wanted her in a way he had never wanted anything ever before and her own want answered his, he could feel it, pulsing there between them. His only coherent thought that her room was close at hand and there was a bed there, and to lay her down there would be bliss.

His mind began to whirl with the thought of how to get them there, how to ask her, should he ask her or should they just go, and what would begin to happen when they went.

Isabela must have sensed him thinking it, for she interrupted her careful exploration of his right ear to straighten up and study him.

"Hang on," she spoke up, and bit her lip reluctantly. "Oh, hell. I can’t believe I’m saying this but.. let’s not do this now."

"Hmm?" He thought surely he had misheard. She had been most enthusiastic a moment ago, and his desire hung so heavily on him now that he was aware of it, and of how very long he had been carrying it. Fenris leaned in to kiss her again, hoping…

But Isabela pushed him back lightly and said: “You’re drunk, slim. I’m not having you drunk. If you still want me when you sober up, come on back. Come back tomorrow, then we’ll see.”

"… if you wish," he said quietly, sitting back. He could have cried out in frustration. It would have been so much *easier* this way, with the drink, it made him relaxed and free. In the morning he would be tense and worried again, everything would be difficult again.

But she had declined, and that was that.

He must have looked very sorry of it. Isabela made a sympathetic noise and planted a sweet, gentle kiss on his lips. “Sorry Fenris. When I have you I want you to remember it. I want us both to remember it.”

"I suppose there is sense in that," he said slowly. He sensed in the lifting fog of drink and desire that he would be relieved about this later. What memories he had were precious, and he had tried to make them carefully. Taking Isabela to bed, he sensed, would be an experience he would want to remember clearly.

The Rivaini laid her head against his shoulder and turned her body into his, warm and soft, and he closed his eyes and let himself grow loose-limbed again in her embrace. There was tomorrow, after all.

"Here I thought you could be shipping out first thing in the morning," he murmured.

She shrugged and snuggled closer in one sleepy movement. “Not just yet. I’ve a few more things to do first.”

Hmph. He supposed he was on that list somewhere, of things to be done. Well, he could not be cross with her for that. it was not a bad place to be. Fenris let his head rest against hers and stretched his limbs beneath the table. He did not remember the benches at the Hanged Man ever being so comfortable. He wondered what Corff would do with the both of them if they fell asleep right here. He wondered if it would count as tomorrow when they awoke. He hmphed again, not without humor, and Isabela hugged his side, and happiness returned to him in a warm rush.

This was as good a moment as he could remember, and for once the thought that there may once have been other good memories beyond his reach did not trouble him. There would be more, after all. He could have warm taverns, good food and drink, and a beautiful pirate queen on his arm. His life could be this, too.


	5. Rumors and Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is easily spooked when it comes to Danarius, and Isabela is more devoted than she realizes

It was just a stupid rumor. Isabela laughed when she heard it - whoever had heard of a magister rising from the dead? - but Fenris had not laughed. He had huffed and made some comment about the waggling tongues of the ignorant, but he had not laughed.

She should have paid it more mind, that night in the Hanged Man. It had been so pleasant up to then, sitting on his lap at the table, sharing a mug of ale, his hand on her thigh. Fenris had loosened up considerably since the death of Danarius, and even more since she had taken him to bed. Now he flirted easily with her, he smiled and laughed and enjoyed a drink or three. But he had not laughed at the stupid rumor, and she should have seen more clearly the way his expression had darkened and closed off. 

People talk. Especially when weird foreign mages show up in their favorite bar and trash the place and wind up dead. Magisters being everyone’s favorite boogeymen, only a couple months after the fact people started up with the crazy rumors. How they didn’t kill him enough. They’re hard to kill, magisters. He’s probably not dead. They’re unnatural, y’know - maybe he got better.

"I heard tell," that night’s version went, "there’s been a grey-bearded man in robes wandering Darktown, feasting on blood. They’re all blood mages, magisters, right? Drinking blood, getting his power back. Nobody pays attention to Darktown; a few people go missing, who’s going to investigate? He could kill a lot of people before anybody did anything about it."

Isabela laughed and waved away the two louts telling the story this time. Drunk miners talking shit, as usual. They didn’t even really understand what blood magic was - you don’t drink the blood, for one thing, you cast spells with it. Idiots. They’d piss their pants if they knew they were talking to the very elf who had torn the magister’s throat out with his bare hands. She would have enjoyed telling them that, but when she’d started Fenris had shook his head slightly and stiffened beneath her, and she shrugged and trailed off. He was in a funny mood all of a sudden. Better let it drop. 

Despite that, she never really thought he would take such nonsense  _seriously_. It was just a dumb story people tell in a bar to pass the time, hardly anything to worry about. But Fenris didn’t come back to the Hanged Man for days and days. Normally she would see him, oh, about every other day, if not in the bar then adventuring with Hawke, or simply about town. But a whole week passed, and she hadn’t heard a thing. It was enough to make a person worry, if Isabela were the sort of person who worried.

She really didn’t want to chase him down - she preferred to let people come to her when they were good and ready. But it seemed Fenris wasn’t going much of anywhere, actually. Nobody had seen him; not Aveline, not Varric, not even Hawke who lived in the same neighborhood. She’d asked.

She’d even hung around outside his house for a little while, just looking around. For no particular reason. Curiousity, all right, nothing more.

Finally out of pure irritation she had gone into his house to see what the situation was. She found him in the wine cellar. Waiting. His sword at his side, and great dark circles under his eyes. She had to take a torch down there to find him, and he’d looked up at her with a kind of hopeless resignation that twisted in her guts. 

"It was too easy," he said tightly, and would say nothing more on the subject.

He’d obsessed over what they said in the bar, she supposed, until he was completely frozen with fear. But he hadn’t wanted to tell anybody about it, because rationally he knew it was too silly to believe. So he waited here, to see if Danarius would show up looking for him or not.

_Oh, Fenris._

She bundled him into his bed under the pretense of sex. Which was still a lot more difficult than it really ought to have been. But he didn’t really want to admit that he had been as afraid as he was, Fenris being Fenris, and she could be very persuasive. She got him up the stairs with a lot of warm, promising kisses. By the time they had gotten to the Master Bedroom, real lust had taken over, and they left most of their clothes on the floor along the way. Fear was a terrific aphrodisiac. 

No sooner had he spent himself between her legs had he turned over and gone straight to sleep. Just about immediately, laid his head in her lap and let himself relax, just as she had hoped he would. Poor Fenris, he had probably not slept a night since she saw him last. Isabela grimaced, realizing that she ought to have checked on him sooner. Of course he would take such silly rumors seriously. He took everything too seriously, wasn’t she always telling him exactly that?

Isabela sat awake in his bed and let him sleep. It was such a deep, exhausted sleep, in fact, that she could run her hands through his white hair without startling him awake. He looked so vulnerable like that, there in her lap, that she was overcome with a tender fierceness, and she thought:  _Let them come. Anyone who would hurt you, I’ll break their necks. I’ll stab their eyes out. Let them come._

It startled her, this sudden protectiveness.

Almost as though he had heard it, Fenris opened his eyes and looked up at her in the dim moonlit room. She could see in his surprised expression the knowledge that he had left himself vulnerable, to her, to whoever was out there waiting for him. 

She touched his hair lightly with her fingertips, holding his gaze, and she said: “I’m awake. I’m here.”

It changed something. They both felt it, a shift. 

It was enough. Fenris closed his eyes and went back to sleep, knowing that it was all right after all, that he was safe here with her.

Isabela sat awake with him as he slept, until the sun rose through the window, and a while longer even than that, fulfilling a promise unspoken.


	6. Solid Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are more dangers on the wounded coast than bandits. Isabela is bitten by a poisonous snake, and Fenris must get her help...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this is an old one. From 2012! I have tons of these short things lying around and I usually don't do much with the older ones but I'm still fond of this one...

"Isabela, there’s blood on your boot," Merrill pointed out helpfully.

She glanced down. Despite their bloody work the pirate nearly never dirtied her boots. They were of the finest Antivan leather and would be difficult to replace.

Sure enough there was a patch at the bottom of her calf where a dark stain was seeping through from the inside. 

"Oh that’s nothing," she said lightly. "It’s so dark in this blasted cave I didn’t even notice."

Merrill was suspicious. Normally Isabela would throw a fit if something happened to her boots. “Why are you walking so slow?”

"I’m tired, kitten. Long night." 

They walked in silence for several minutes, and the young Dalish grew more and more worried. Silence from Isabela was not normal. 

"It’s that snake you stepped on, isn’t it? The pretty yellow one? You said it didn’t bite you…"

"I’m fine." She shrugged and kept walking without elaborating further. But there was a slight hitch in her step.

 

"It did look very upset. You sort of backed into it, when we were fighting off those giant spiders. And they do tend to bite when they get mad."

"Stop, Merrill. It’s nothing."

Merrill hurried ahead to where Hawke and Fenris lead the way, swords drawn. “Something’s wrong with Isabela,” she told them, wringing her hands.

They all turned back and stared at the pirate coming up moodily behind them. “Just a wound on my leg, that’s all,” Isabela said crossly. “Andraste’s tits, can we get this done with? I have such a headache…”

"Those snakes are  _poisonous_ ,” Merrill said, bending over to look at her leg. “Even a little bit of the venom could kill you.”

"It struck my boot is all. If you’re were so eager to get my boots off me, Kitten, you could just ask…" 

But she trailed off, too tired even to manage innuendo. Hawke and Fenris circled around her now. “If you’re bleeding it must have bitten through your leathers,” Hawke said. “Will Elfroot cure it, Merrill?”

"No, no I’m afraid not. Even the Dalish haven’t a cure for this particular kind of viper. She’s going to need magical healing-"

And before she could say another word Fenris grabbed the Rivaini woman around the waist and slung her over his shoulder. She sputtered with outrage as he started to carry her off.

"Put me down you stupid sodding elf!" she roared over his back.

Isabela could see Hawke and Merrill just behind, drawing their weapons. “We’ll cover you,” Garrett was shouting after them. 

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded.

"Clinic," he said shortly, and Isabela slammed against the hard back of his armor as he stepped over the rocky terrain. This was not a graceful way to travel.

"You are not carrying me all the way back to Kirkwall!" She pounded on his back, incensed. "I can walk!"

"Mmmm." 

"Dammit! Put me down!" She socked him hard in the lower back, earning a pained grunt from her captor. He hauled her up more firmly and continued on his way just the same.

"This is kidnapping," she complained bitterly. If only her head wasn’t throbbing, she could really give him a thrashing for this.

Of course there would be more spiders on the way out of the blasted cave. She hoped briefly that the elf would set her down to fight them, but Hawke and Merrill took them on and the elf marched ahead towards the daylight.

She decided to try another angle. “All right, play time’s over. Just set me down and I’ll walk back to the clinic like a good girl, I promise.”

Fenris didn’t answer her, and she continued to slam into his back. 

"Just because we slept together once or twice doesn’t make you my keeper! Fenris! Are you listening?!"

It had been three times, actually. Although the count depended on how you tallied. Nights, positions, locations, orgasms… some of those counts would be a bit more than three. Not that it mattered. They were casual bedmates at best, and he had no right.

They reached daylight, which seemed to punch right through her eyelids no matter how hard she closed them. It hurt. She would rather stay in the cave.

"Fine, see if I ever take you to bed again!" she threatened. "You like carrying me around? Remember this because it’s the last time you’re getting this close! And at least stop spinning around!"

He slowed. “I am not spinning, Isabela.”

She was quiet for awhile after that.

"Put me down," she requested again. When he paid her no mind she elaborated: "I’m going to throw up."

He took her down from his shoulder and held her under her arms as she sat on the ground and heaved. Everything she’d eaten since yesterday came up. This must be what seasickness was like. Even her iron stomach had some limits, it seemed. 

As soon as the heaving subsided he lifted her up again. This time he folded her across his chest, letting her bad leg dangle beneath her. It was throbbing in earnest now, and her head felt heavy and thick. She laid it on his thin shoulder. It was not terribly comfortable.

"If you need to vomit again, point the other way," he said shortly.

_This must look ridiculous,_ she thought. Fenris was strong enough to carry her thanks to his lyrium enhancements, but she actually outmassed him by a good amount. She was just hanging off him everywhere.  _How completely undignified. I hope noone sees me like this._

Good thing, though, they were well on their way back by now because the strange sensation in her calf was spreading and her body was starting to go numb. What wasn’t numb was tingling, and not in the nice way.

"I’m sorry I punched you," she tried to say. But her tongue was too thick and it came out more like "mphforble" and Fenris grimaced and started to walk faster.

She gave up on talking. 

She watched the sea over his shoulder as they followed the coast back to the city. The horizon was nice and steady, while everything else wobbled and spun around her. If only she were at sea. Always thought she would die at sea. If she died here, she hoped someone would know enough to put her in the sea. She should have told someone that while she still had the chance. 

The city gates loomed before them and the guards there usually gave you a hard time if you weren’t with a citizen resident like Hawke. 

"Can you hold on?" he asked her. 

Her arms were tingling but she could still grab around his neck and hang, for the moment anyway. Fenris strode up to the nearest city guardsman blocking the gates and plunged his hand into his chest.

"If you would like to keep your heart on the inside, you’ll let me pass without incident," he said calmly.

The guardsman stared down at the arm that mysteriously ended at his own chest and wrapped icy fingers around his heart. “You - you’re good. Go on in and welcome to Kirkwall.”

He rushed through the gate and settled her more comfortably against his narrow chest so she could relax again, somewhat at least.

They took the stairs down into Darktown.

Her leg was swelling, straining against her boot. It looked really alarming and maybe they should have taken it off after all but there was no time. Isabela closed her eyes against the sight. She was starting to feel short of breath on top of everything else, she simply could not get enough air. 

"Isabela?" she heard him say. 

But she was too busy breathing to respond at all. It felt like she was floating in the air now. Everything was fading away.

Rather than come up with anything reassuring to tell her, Fenris broke into a run.

Things became quite jolty and exciting for awhile. Then she was being laid down on a bed and that was probably a good sign so she opened her eyes.

Fenris was dragging Anders over by the arm, quite emphatically, away from another set of patients. He deposited the protesting healer at her side. He did have a truly spectacular glower, which he turned on Anders in full force.

"Hey, we have a queue here—"

Fenris cut him off with a snarl. “Fix her. Now.” 

She was suddenly intensely glad it had been Fenris and not Hawke who had grabbed her. Hawke was a good leader and great in bed, but he would not have threatened the life of the healer if he didn’t make her better right fucking now. That was the sort of initiative she appreciated in a man.

"Good grief, Isabela, what a mess," Anders said as he prodded her boot. His annoyance had turned very quickly to concern. "You should have cut this off her," he said and hurriedly took out a pocketknife to start to slice through the leather. "What got her? Darkspawn?"

"Snakebite. It seemed more urgent to get her here first."

Anders reluctantly agreed. “Yes, it probably was. Hold her up, all right? We need to get her heart higher than the wound.”

Isabela was lifted up again, and then was leaned back against a surprisingly solid Fenris. Her head felt too heavy to turn and anyway looking at her leg made everything spin. She kept her face pressed sideways against him, with just a little patch of lyrium lined skin under his chin visible and holding still. She kept staring at it. If she looked away, she might lose her balance and fall over. Steady. Steady.

_How are you at sailing?_  she wondered abruptly. 

"All right, hold her still while I work on her leg."

Strong hands gripped her arms. The boot was sliced open and her skin prickled against the open air.

_Doesn’t matter. You’re handy enough to have around. I could make a sailor of you. You’d be climbing the mast in no time. You’d make a terror of a pirate. And you’d look fantastic walking naked around the Captain’s Quarters._

It occurred to Isabela that it would break a longstanding rule of hers to keep Fenris around. She never slept with her crew, and generally kept affairs on the shore.

But then again, hadn’t she always said rules were meant to be broken?

Warmth and sensation flooded her as the healing began. Pain, too, as her nerves started to wake up again. She hissed and shifted, but with Fenris holding her down she couldn’t quite move.

"That’s looking better. You’re lucky you got here when you did." Anders extended his magic to the rest of her, and Isabela’s breathing eased. Her lips and tongue belonged to her again.

Her mouth was dry, but she managed to say: “You owe me a new pair of boots.”

Anders laughed. “You’re welcome.”

He gathered up some bandages for her wound, which was still spectacularly swollen but looking much improved. It hurt when he handled it, but it was in a way a relief to feel something again. 

Fenris kept a steady hold on her the whole time. And when Anders was done, and left her to rest, she stayed leaning against him a little while longer, for once content to stay in place on solid ground.

"Am I still kicked out of your bed?" he rumbled in her ear.

"Yes," she said hoarsely, and smiled. "But… the wall’s still up for grabs. And there’s always the floor…"


	7. Tears Dry On Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of things Isabela doesn't want to talk about. She keeps her pain to herself. But she will let Fenris comfort her, once in awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this is a sad one, and involves both pregnancy and miscarriage. You may want to skip to the next, happier chapter.

Isabela hobbled over to the secret passage that lead from the clinic in Darktown to Hawke's mansion in Hightown, holding her mid-section gingerly. She could hear Anders shouting after her, something about how she shouldn't be up and around yet, but she'd had enough of healers and medicine by now, and if she didn't get the hell out of there she was going to scream.  
  
Painfully she made her way up the stairs, her steps slow and heavy. By the first landing she was grumbling about how she should have just gone back to her room in Lowtown. Fewer bloody stairs. Why couldn't her lover live somewhere more convenient? Jerk.  
  
She stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the wall. This was bad. Stopping meant not moving meant  **thinking** , which was the last thing she wanted to do. Thoughts like  _this wasn't supposed to happen_  were useless now. What she needed to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other until she got to where she was going --  
  
-  _but it **wasn't**  supposed to happen, not to  **her**  -   
  
s_o she went. Trudged up one step at a time, muscles deep inside her abdomen pulling painfully as she went.   
 _  
Sod this pain. Bloody Anders said it would stop hurting by now. Of course, he had also said to stay in bed.  
  
_ But then she would have had to listen to his blighted lectures. _  
  
 _It's your own fault, Isabela. How could you be so careless?_  
  
 _I suppose it's a miracle it didn't happen sooner, the way you carry on. What am I talking about, of course it has. This can't be the first time._  
  
_ And so on. _Blast him._ So bloody self-righteous for an apostate. If Fenris had been there, he would have put a fist through him, especially if she asked him to. He was handy like that.   
  
She continued up the seemingly endless stairs to Hightown. He had better be home when she gets there...

Fenris looked startled to find Isabela at the door - mainly because she never used the door. She usually came in the window, or some other way. Just showed up on a whim, when the mood struck her. Clearly this had annoyed him, initially, but it seemed he had gotten used to it. That she had  **knocked**  was probably the second surprise.  _  
_  
His too-dark eyebrows came together in that way he had, the one that made his eyes large and liquid and sometimes made her stomach flip.  
  
"I need a bed," she said shortly. "Just for tonight."  
  
She breezed past as naturally as she could manage, standing up straight with an effort. Left him staring from the door as she started up the stairs. _  
  
"_ What's wrong?" he called after her, bolting the door.  
  
She tried to walk faster this time, tried not to have a hitch in her step. Fenris kept looking after her with that worried look. If he kept this up tonight, she was going to have to find another place to sleep.   
  
"I'm fine," she insisted flatly. Couldn't think of a snappy comment to add on to that. All she could think of was how many blighted  **stairs**  there were in this stupid city. And of the last conversation she had managed with Anders...  _  
  
 _Who did this to you, Isabela?_  
  
 _How should I know? Could be a couple people. Ran into a former crewmate on the docks, we did some... catching up. And there was a dwarf the week after that, the one who could lift the bench over his head with two ladies sitting on it? Remember him?_  
  
 _Maker's sake, you don't know?? That's disgusting.__  
  
There was no point in explaining to Anders that she didn't know what was wrong when the bleeding started. Not until she was bent over cramping in the street and a stranger called the healer. Anders assumed she already knew about the pregnancy. That was how she found out; when it was already over.  
  
Of course she didn't know! Isabela wasn't supposed to be able to get pregnant. An herbsman had told her ages ago, and she'd been living on that assumption for a very long time. She had certainly tested it often enough. How had this happened?  
  
"Are you all right?" Fenris said behind her, touching her gingerly on the arm.  
  
Isabela shakes herself out of her thoughts, and starts up the stairs once more.

She skips the living room, and avoids the Master Bedroom where they usually used the big four-poster bed. She limps single-mindedly towards the pile of blankets in an empty room where Fenris normally slept, and she sat down hard in the middle of it.  
  
She lies down carefully on her side, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. If she made a single wrong move, every muscle in her abdomen would clench and she would curl up like a beetle in the dirt. So she held herself as still as possible, blinking in the dark.   
  
It was quiet here; still and peaceful. The blankets smelled like leather and wine and the faint tang of lyrium.   
  
Her breath caught in her throat, and Isabela cringed. Not now, don't do this now. She was not going to cry. It was stupid; there was no reason for it. It didn't hurt that much. She'd had worse hangnails than this. Yesterday her biggest problem was a spot of indigestion, which it turns out wasn't indigestion come to think of it, and now she wouldn't even have that problem. Everything was fine. Fine!   
  
What would she have done with a baby anyway?  
  
 _I think the bleeding's stopped now. It's been a few hours, sounds about right. You'll be sore for awhile but this should be the end of the cramping. I can use a blocking spell for the pain at this point. What you really need to do is sleep..._  
  
Sleep. What a joke.   
  
Fenris came in. He wasn't saying anything. He just stood there, staring.  
  
Then he came over and quietly dropped to his knees beside her. Without so much as a by-your-leave he started untying her boots. If she could move right now she would have kicked him. But she couldn't, and he eased them off one at a time, taking care not to move her too much.   
  
Now he was spreading a blanket over her, a nice one he had found somewhere, and he tucked it around her with a gentleness she hadn't known he had.   
  
When he went to stand, she heard herself say, "Stay."  
  
So he stayed. He put an arm around her, which she quickly moved away from her belly. He took to stroking her hair instead. Which felt nice. She concentrated on that feeling to keep her tears from falling.  
  
She'd lied to Anders, of course. There hadn't been anyone but Fenris for a long time now.  
  
The elf kept stroking her hair, gently. He was saying something just behind her ear. Not in Common, in his own language. Tevene. She liked to hear him speak Tevene, where the words didn't have to mean anything to her, but could be anything.   
  
He spoke in a sing-song, perhaps reciting something. His voice low and musical and so achingly familiar.   
  
It was a lullaby. Even if it wasn't, it was. She was relaxing, slowly. Sleep was sneaking up behind her, and she was going to let it. She would be herself again in the morning, and everything would be fine.  
  
Tonight she was not herself. She was someone who could have been a mother. She could have had a beautiful girl with wild dark hair and green eyes. The hands on her hair could have stayed forever, and the voice in her ear would never stop.  
  
In her sleep, the tears dried on her cheeks as if they had never been there.


	8. Summer Storm

Isabela never knocked.

She found a different way in every time. Through a hole in the roof, a broken window, one of the many side entrances he’d thought he had successfully blocked off. She always found a way.

Fenris would often be asleep when she came. Which was another mystery. Considering how infrequently he slept, he had no idea how she could time this so well. He slept most often in a chair besides the fire, sometimes in a nest of blankets in a corner. And sometimes he would choose a random room in the mansion, when he was feeling particularly paranoid about slavers.

She always found him there, too.

He slept lightly, eternally vigilant for danger, and at the slightest touch he would lash out. He would push away the intruder and fall into a crouch, ready to fight, and would find Isabela giggling underneath him, or across the room, where she had landed.

It was all part of the game, you see.

“Gets the blood going,” she liked to say. Danger could turn so easily into lust, where she was concerned. She liked to say they were flavors that went well together.

Just this once, he caught her at it. He was drowsing facing the window, and spotted a familiar shape easing it open. On the third floor? She is a better climber than I thought…

He remained in place, lying on the floor under a thin blanket that was probably actually a curtain, come to think of it, and he watched her. Only her face and hands were visible as she coaxed the window open, somehow keeping it from creaking as you would expect such old wood to do. Then she had opened it just enough, and eased through it silently. That volumptuous body of hers maneuvered so fluidly, much more than you would ever guess to look at her, as she slid inside and dropped to the floor. She crouched there a bare moment, her golden eyes gleaming in a shaft of moonlight, and then she moved into the shadows where Fenris lay.

He waited until she was just above him, and then pounced.

The two of them tumbled roughly across the floor, all elbows and knees and hard edges bruising each other. Fenris came out on top. He was not undressed this time; though he had removed his gauntlets and boots he had retained the chestpiece and its spikey pauldrons. He straddled her waist and held her down by her shoulders to the dusty floor, and tried not to notice how very, dangerously soft she was.

Isabela was roaring with laughter when they came to a stop. She just managed to say: “Ooh, you were waiting for me this time! I like this even better.”

He held her in place. “Must you keep this up? I have a front door, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Her free hands found his thighs and gripped them, each fingertip pulling him closer.

“You know I do not like to disturbed at night. Nor do I like… surprises.”

“But I do.” The pirate grinned. “Even when they’re on me. I like you like this, wolfy. Let’s play.”

Isabela had not yet settled on the most annoying nickname for him, clearly.

He released her shoulders and settled back, still straddling her. “Marian…”

“… doesn’t mind,” she finished, lifting herself up on her elbows. “We’re sharing, remember? And she doesn’t play like we do.”

He was still accustoming himself to this arrangement, unclear of its rules. It was better for all three of them to be together. With only Isabela things had a tendency to run wilder.

A distant thunder sounded. Isabela looked to the window, her face completely changed.

“I knew I smelled rain,” the rivaini said excitedly. “Can we still go up on your roof? It hasn’t all fallen down yet, has it?”

“Not as yet, no.” Fenris was amused. It generally took a lot to divert Isabela’s attention away from sex. Interesting.

“Come on,” she said, sliding out from under him. “Let’s watch the storm roll in. Bring some of that pink wine.”

“Rose?”

“That too.” And she was off, running lightly down the hall towards the room where a bookcase had been toppled (by Isabela) over a pile of furniture to reach a hole in the ceiling.

He visited the cellar before following. By the time Fenris joined her on the roof, the wind was kicking up quite powerfully. Great gusts blew in from the direction of the sea, where Isabela faced with her hair whipping all around her.

She turned to look at him as he emerged, her sillhouette glorious against the glimmering horizon.

“Look at that lightning. It’s going to be a big one,” she told him, sounding greatly satisfied. She giggled in a way he had never heard before, and in a momentary flash he could imagine her as a young girl.

As he worked the bottle open (phasing abilities could be very helpful in this regard) she started to tell him about storms at sea, back when she still captained The Siren’s Call. Which were disasters, truly, that threatened the lives of everyone aboard, but also exhilarating, just the sort of challenge she lived for.

“Someone in the crow’s nest rings the storm bell, and it’s all hands on deck. I’d have them sail hard in another direction, hoping to get around it. Sometimes you do. But sometimes the wind’s already kicking up, and you have to trice the main sail and draw the storm sails before your spars snap to bits from a gust of wind. Now you’re getting nowhere. Have to set the sails downwind and hope for the best. The swells, ooh, the swells could be as high as this roof, maybe higher! Up and down, shaking like a child’s toy. And you’re bailing like crazy so the whole mess doesn’t tip over, and sometimes the bailers are getting sucked overboard. If there’s time hopefully you can fish them out. Always need more bailers.”

He finished an inaugural swallow and passed the wine to Isabela. “Would you go down with your ship? When you were Captain?”

“Never came to that. Never would. I won’t lose a ship for anything - but if I did,” she went on, swigging impressively from the bottle, “I’d be last off, that’s for sure. Wouldn’t follow it down, but I’d try like hell to keep it afloat. Until everyone else’s jumped overboard and it was just planks in the water.”

On one occasion a bolt of lightning had set the mast ablaze, and even with the sails pulled down and rain pouring on them the fire threatened to engulf the whole ship. Her crew was ready to abandon ship, but not Captain Isabela. She spun the wheel and tipped the whole thing nearly over, and a huge swell put a big chunk of the fire out before the ship righted again.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It was a last resort.” She shrugged. “Got a bit of a reputation for that one. Anyway, so now there’s just a little bit of fire, but we were kind ofsinking. A single wave filled up most of the upper deck. All the crew gives up on everything else and just bails out water fast as they can. I’m wrestling with the wheel and the ship’s still burning and now we’re capsizing too, but we were almost through the storm and I’ll be damned before I lose my ship.”

“And then?”

“Got less and less exciting from there - storm slowly blew out, we bailed the water, threw it at the fire, et cetera. Ship was a bloody disaster when we were done but it didn’t sink. It didn’t sink.”

The rains came suddenly. One minute they were dry and the next soaking. Isabela threw back her head and grinned, and Fenris closed his eyes and enjoyed the cooling sensation of the water. It was soothing to the perpetual burn of the brands on his skin, a thoroughly pleasant feeling.

The storm was fully upon them now, thunder growling loudly all around them. Sane people would have gone inside by now, he was tempted to say, but he didn’t.

Instead he opened his eyes and watched the rain sliding down Isabela’s arms in little rivers, tributaries, streams. Her hair soaked down into a wet slick down her back, exposing her neck and shoulders covered with a sheen of warm water. The water on her skin shone in each flash of lightning.

Fenris slid closer to her, absorbed in the way the rain ran down her bare shoulder where the strap of her shirt had slipped down, how it darted across her collarbone and dived into those soft curves. Without thinking, he brought his mouth to that shoulder and licked at the moisture there on her smooth dark skin.

Then she moved and he jumped back, convinced he had overstepped. Perhaps she didn’t want his attention right now and was content just to enjoy her storm.

But Isabela looked over and reached for where his own hair had spiked down wetly over his face and smoothed it back with her fingertips. She looked pleased with him.

With this encouragement he grasped her soaking shirt and peeled it away from her body, slipping his hands underneath it to run them over the slick warmth of her skin. His mouth found her shoulder again, and suckled at the tender flesh that lead to her neck.

That he was permitted to do this was still a novelty. Fenris was unused to the idea that he could actually have the things he wanted.

Rain and lightning became merely background noise. There was only their two wet bodies grappling together, sliding together and turning over until Isabela was on top of him. He hadn’t the presence of mind to be bothered by it as he would usually be. Isabela’s top had slid off her shoulders and her magnificent breasts were tantalizingly near escaping her shirt entirely, the rain soaking completely through her white shift and revealing her dark nipples, and looking at them he would have let her do anything she wanted, anything.

What she wanted were his pants off, and then it was only fair to pull her shirt down and expose her breasts and bury his face wetly between them. With a wicked smile she slid down his body and drew out his cock, already at full attention, and slid it between her breasts.

The sight of it was enough to make him groan, and Isabela laughed at him for that. She had him at her mercy. She alternated squeezing her ample breasts together to hold him and freeing her hands to run over and over his gleaming skin. She slid him in and out of the warm softness of her cleavage and between the water and her beauty and the warm skin-on-skin friction he was quite out of his mind with pleasure.

Then with lightning stretching lyrium-white fingers across the sky they repositioned and she rode him, with the rain slapping against her and him burning inside her and their cries were sucked up into the storm and bourne away.

The storm thrashed and writhed over the City of Chains until it spun apart and blew away, leaving the lovers abandoned together in the ruins of a decaying manor, shivering and satisfied.


End file.
